Another short story from my writing class
I changed the names here, but these are the characters I was thinking of as I wrote, so it seems only fair.
The tutor was particularly generous in his praise of this one.
The task was to write about a transformation of some kind. A young couple are now living in Britain. Definitely very vanilla G-rated.
Transformation Postponed
It started with the base layer. Careful, smooth, even coverage. Extra-special attention to any lines, cracks or creases. She focussed as closely as she could - it was vital to prepare properly for such an important occasion.
Then a layer of colour; something appropriate, not too orange, not too pale. Special care was needed here too, to avoid dark shadows, evidence of the traumas of the past and the not-so-long-ago. A sponge came in useful for smoothing, making sure it was even.
After that, the details. All those minor things, none of them noticeable to the casual eye, except by their absence. The shading, the fine lines creating an edge or an outline, the touches of colour to draw the eye.
Then the finishing touches - the final polish.
She stepped away from the wall, satisfied at last, and turned to leave the room. Just one last glance in the mirror. She smiled at her reflection - how very much she had changed - her priorities, her preferences, the look she wanted. It had taken so very long, but the transformation was complete.
Her smile, evidence of that bloom everyone had told her about, froze. She narrowed her eyes, peered more closely. The smile faded completely.
There was a crack. The perfect finish was perfect no longer, the façade ruined. She leaned in to check. No doubt about it - some stupid mistake in the preparation, probably, and a long, dark line, fine as a hair, but definitely not a hair, trailed down.
Nobody else would be able to see it. She was well aware of that even before she started to call for help. Nobody else would care, either. She would know, though. She lifted a finger and traced the line lightly, following the jagged shape.
It was, somehow, her fate - this one occasion, when she had done it perfectly so often it had become second nature. This one occasion, when it mattered more to her than anything else. This one occasion when she had no-one to blame but herself.
She patted the bulge where once she had been flat. She was beyond a balloon, even of the barrage kind, now. She was beyond a Zeppelin, for that matter. She could give a blue whale a run for its money. That was why it was so important to get this one thing right. She wanted to go out. She deserved to go out. There would be months, years ahead when going out was impossible.
And now it was impossible tonight, too. At least, not without starting again. She crumpled at that thought. Salt trailed down her face, spoiling her mascara. She called, defeated. Nothing was ever going to go right again.
When Spike found her she was huddled, tearful and near-inconsolable. He pointed out all the sensible, project-solving things she could rely on him to do, made the reasonable suggestions, offered his help. He offered to go out and slaughter a few demons if it would cheer her up. He gave her that look, the one that usually sent electric signals shooting up and down.
It was no good, though. There was a hairline crack in the nursery wall, the baby was due any day, and if she went out to the party she might never repair it. The mural of nursery characters - and the odd demon - had a mark in the corner. The room would be wrong, tainted.
She knew her duty. In the face of Spike’s protests she took up the knife and the Polyfilla*. This room was going to be perfect for her perfect baby.
* They are in Britain, OK? I think it's called "spackle" in the US?
The tutor was particularly generous in his praise of this one.
The task was to write about a transformation of some kind. A young couple are now living in Britain. Definitely very vanilla G-rated.
Transformation Postponed
It started with the base layer. Careful, smooth, even coverage. Extra-special attention to any lines, cracks or creases. She focussed as closely as she could - it was vital to prepare properly for such an important occasion.
Then a layer of colour; something appropriate, not too orange, not too pale. Special care was needed here too, to avoid dark shadows, evidence of the traumas of the past and the not-so-long-ago. A sponge came in useful for smoothing, making sure it was even.
After that, the details. All those minor things, none of them noticeable to the casual eye, except by their absence. The shading, the fine lines creating an edge or an outline, the touches of colour to draw the eye.
Then the finishing touches - the final polish.
She stepped away from the wall, satisfied at last, and turned to leave the room. Just one last glance in the mirror. She smiled at her reflection - how very much she had changed - her priorities, her preferences, the look she wanted. It had taken so very long, but the transformation was complete.
Her smile, evidence of that bloom everyone had told her about, froze. She narrowed her eyes, peered more closely. The smile faded completely.
There was a crack. The perfect finish was perfect no longer, the façade ruined. She leaned in to check. No doubt about it - some stupid mistake in the preparation, probably, and a long, dark line, fine as a hair, but definitely not a hair, trailed down.
Nobody else would be able to see it. She was well aware of that even before she started to call for help. Nobody else would care, either. She would know, though. She lifted a finger and traced the line lightly, following the jagged shape.
It was, somehow, her fate - this one occasion, when she had done it perfectly so often it had become second nature. This one occasion, when it mattered more to her than anything else. This one occasion when she had no-one to blame but herself.
She patted the bulge where once she had been flat. She was beyond a balloon, even of the barrage kind, now. She was beyond a Zeppelin, for that matter. She could give a blue whale a run for its money. That was why it was so important to get this one thing right. She wanted to go out. She deserved to go out. There would be months, years ahead when going out was impossible.
And now it was impossible tonight, too. At least, not without starting again. She crumpled at that thought. Salt trailed down her face, spoiling her mascara. She called, defeated. Nothing was ever going to go right again.
When Spike found her she was huddled, tearful and near-inconsolable. He pointed out all the sensible, project-solving things she could rely on him to do, made the reasonable suggestions, offered his help. He offered to go out and slaughter a few demons if it would cheer her up. He gave her that look, the one that usually sent electric signals shooting up and down.
It was no good, though. There was a hairline crack in the nursery wall, the baby was due any day, and if she went out to the party she might never repair it. The mural of nursery characters - and the odd demon - had a mark in the corner. The room would be wrong, tainted.
She knew her duty. In the face of Spike’s protests she took up the knife and the Polyfilla*. This room was going to be perfect for her perfect baby.
* They are in Britain, OK? I think it's called "spackle" in the US?